


Deep in the Skin, Deep in the Past

by ZombyEmblem



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Despair, Angst, Battlebots, Dangan Ronpa Spoilers, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Self-Harm (ish. he breaks skin on accident that's really it), Self-Loathing, Super Dangan Ronpa 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombyEmblem/pseuds/ZombyEmblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>==REPOSTED FOLLOWING ebooks-tree SCARE==</p><p>Funny how the brain reverts to its old self-destructive habits when you can’t quite move on. How it piles blame on blame. If you have a past of hurting, you always get pulled back into it.<br/>Some people do their damnedest to keep you clinging to the future, though.</p><p>(Day 6 of SHSL Rarepair Week! Prompt: The Fool Arcana.)<br/>(The Fool symbolizes endless opportunity, new beginnings, trusting the flow, and letting go of worry and fear.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep in the Skin, Deep in the Past

Was it 4:30 already? Hell yeah! Break time!

Kazuichi Souda checked the rest of the clocks in the shop. That arrogant, four-eyed prick had yelled at him once already when he’d left early due to his watch being ahead, and hell if he was gonna give that asshole the satisfaction of getting to do it again. Kazuichi checked to make sure all his tools were set back where he liked them, wiped (some of) the grease off of his forehead, slapped the tail of the helicopter he was working on, and sauntered into the elevator.

He could only grin, watching his workplace slowly disappear behind sliding doors as the lift began its ascent. Down there, the pride of the world’s best surviving engineers poured like coffee into the dozens of vehicles and machines in construction, each being gussied up in preparation for the day those shuttered blast doors would finally open. It was the muskiest, grungiest, downright _manliest_ dressing room in the world, tirelessly applying makeup for a wartime musical that never finished its run. But it was also, y’know, really hot, so it was nice to get out.

As the sweltering heat and fatigue were calmly scooped off of his limbs by the expertly-installed air conditioning, he allowed himself to indulge in a little pride for his elevator. It was the best ever. For real, though— the thing could be the most advanced of its kind in the world now. After all, only the mechanically-inclined members of the Future Foundation needed to use it, and they liked to customize.

Then the doors slid apart, and their passenger changed worlds as he stepped into the office complex of the Future Foundation.

To be specific, it was the “commons” area in the middle of the offices. Third floor. The open hallway of the repurposed building felt kind of like an airport, especially with the massive crowd of dudes in suits filing through like expensive black sports cars traveling the streets of a city, directed in straight lines and grids, everyone trying to get to somewhere a bit more important. Sometimes the mechanic wondered whether this level of traffic were normal, or whether the Foundation decided to filter all of its desk-job stiffs through this crossroads at the same time each day just to make things seem busy. He certainly hadn’t expected the group to have this many members. It was reassuring, but not so much because of the promise of allies—more like, it was good to see so many less-important people here.

Kazuichi was aware that the grime of metalwork still had a foothold on his bright yellow jumpsuit, not to mention his face. (He’d tried to pass the stains off as war paint once, but nobody believed for a second that he was hardcore enough to wear that kind of thing.) Months ago, he would have earned biting stares and disapproving looks from the passerby, but they were getting used to his complete lack of consideration for how they viewed him. Who was the Super High School Level, here? Not them!

Luckily, the VHS tape in his interior pocket was still safe. He didn’t have time to run to his personal locker a floor below to retrieve anything during break; time was short enough, and he had someone to meet up with. Not just anyone, either—this was a hot date with a lovely lady.

Well, kinda. Not his lady of choice, who was often confined to the conference rooms, when she wasn’t visiting the lab that housed the pods for their Schrodinger’s Friends. (No way to tell if they were alive or dead, so they’re neither till the thing opens! Cheery, ain’t it?) Also not the guy he would have picked first, who… still had a lot of baggage to get through customs. Or the cyclops he always wanted to hide behind. Maybe the phrasing on that remark was just wrong in the first place, he considered as he jogged to the break area.

But it was a new, shiny thing, this get-together they planned, and he couldn’t help but get revved up about it, right? (Eh? _Ehhhhh?_ Anyone?)

Not like he was about to show it, though. Teeth flashing confidently, he abruptly turned his jog to a calm stroll as he arrived at the break room. No need to look desperate, Kazuichi. Gotta play it cool. Pretend you haven’t been waiting for this, like, forever.

And as he forced himself to meander slowly into the calm but dull room, _like a cool guy_ , he realized he didn’t hear any sounds of activity. Coming from the doorway, other than the kitchenette that was stuck in an alcove immediately to the left, there were three rooms for people’s relaxation—one with repurposed café tables for lunchtime through a doorway on the right, another with soundproofing and little cots behind a heavier door directly ahead, and a third with cheap, doctor’s-office-waiting-room seats and a television. That room, found by hanging a left a little past the kitchenette, was his destination. And even though it was still a good eight paces away, he refused to speed up to make sure anyone was actually there to see him being suave.

Eventually, he got there. And there was no one. What the hell. All that swag, wasted.

 _Whump_ —“AAH!”

Alright, you know what, weird noise coming through the wall? Don’t be fucking rude.

Kazuichi very calmly erased his little shriek from his memory and stomped back around to the kitchenette. He didn’t know if it was a raccoon or something, or if the walls were creaking and he was just yelling at natural physics and chemistry, but he came in here with a good start and something was conspiring to ruin it.

Of course, there was nobody there when he walked in. He made sure to check the corners, the little alcoves, everything. Definitely just the laws of nature out to get him. Thoroughly humiliated in front of a grand total of no one, Kazuichi leaned back onto the countertop, weight creaking on the rounded plastic edge of the surface, one gunky hand trying to rub the tension out of his face. This was fine. Not like he was unused to being stood up.

Then he heard scuffling noises and sprang just an inch or two off the ground. A glance downward indicated nothing but the cabinets built in to the counter he was—Oh.

Slowly, with the exasperated restraint of someone who knew they were going to be disappointed but not surprised, the mechanic shifted off the counter, turned and bent down to face the cabinet doors that had been behind his knees, and opened one to find Akane Owari curled up in a ball, trying hold back a grin.

“… Owari?”

“Yeah?”

“… What the hell are you doing in there?”

“Thought you were gonna say ‘Marco’. Is that what the scream was supposed to be?”

She tried to shift her position, but a leg slipped and knocked against the wall of the tiny compartment.

 _Whump_ —“Gah!”

“Polo!”

* * *

 

Lounging on the weak couch with awful, slumping posture and a cookie in hand, Owari looked pretty much at home. “Did you find the cool one? Is this the cool one?” she called through dough and chocolate chips.

“Yeah, this one’s the cool one!” Kazuichi called back over his shoulder as he fiddled with the VHS player stashed on the shelves of the TV table. He’d tossed the jumpsuit onto a chair on the side of the television room, leaving him in a black tank top and jeans (which were uncomfortable as hell down in the heat of the workshop, but it was _soooooo_ good to be able to take the jumpsuit off and not flash his underoos at people). He’d already used the sink to clean his face and get the sludge off of his hands—no way he was gonna touch a cute machine like that video player with gunk all over him. When Owari got bored and looked away, he’d also used the hand soap to wash out his armpits real quick.

It was a little thing. But the last time they’d had a conversation face-to-face, he could tell she was keeping an unusually healthy distance and sticking her head away at weird angles. In a moment of epiphanic clarity, he realized she was trying to divert her nose. Owari had a high-quality sniffer, and he _did_ smell pretty rank, what with the whole “sweating balls in a hot, windowless room all day” thing. The gymnast herself smelled like shit, usually, but Kazuichi figured that whatever discomfort he felt, it must be worse on her end.

To her credit, Owari had a difficult job, too. The Foundation had her exploring the ruins of the cities and areas nearby, catching footage of the wreckage for later review with a tiny camera built into a pair of special goggles. With her agility, she was able to scale most of the unexpected obstacles that came about during the Tragedy—overturned buildings, torn-up streets, destroyed bridges, that sort of thing.

Because of all that, she didn’t wear the same suit as most of the Future Foundation’s members. Stunning as she looked when she tried one on for the first time, it was pretty obvious she would only get it dirty and ripped. Not that she wanted to wear one in the first place—ease of movement was the real deciding factor in her preferred outfits. Since modesty wasn’t high on her list of concerns, that pool of clothes opened up to her chosen combo of sports bras and shorts—normally a sunburn hazard, but she already had a nice bronzing worked up, so she was fine.

Today, though, it looked like someone had forced her to throw on a plain brown hoodie when she returned for her break. She still couldn’t zip it up the whole way. (Owari’s struggles with buttons and other fasteners were well-documented from the day she stepped foot in the building.) It was kind a weird excuse for a date, what with both parties being dressed like slobs, but that was to be expected.

The television lit up with the beginning of the tape. “Alright! Here we go!” Kazuichi chattered as he hopped back onto his feet and ran over to take his own seat on the couch, to the right of his new buddy. On a nervous impulse, he glanced over at her to gauge her feelings (please be interested, please be not bored). Nothing out of the ordinary, from the looks of it—but did that mean she was happy, or just pretending?

Luckily, that traitorous little thought was squelched and tossed in the freezer when he noticed her hair, which was in one of the suckiest braids he’d ever seen. “That’s… what did you do to your hair?”

“Huh?” She swallowed the last remnants of the cookie and grabbed the braid—a stringy and uneven creation, little strands poking out of every fold. The anti-piracy warnings were still going on the TV. “Oh. I tried doing it like you said, but it’s kinda hard.”

Kazuichi clicked his tongue against his teeth in disapproval before scooting closer. “Lemme see that.”

The gymnast shrugged, turning her back so he could fix it, legs now dangling over the couch’s left arm. “Sure, whatever. Dunno why it matters, though.”

Her new hairdresser uncoiled the sloppy knots with practiced ease, although his hands were pulling maybe a bit harder than they needed. “How can it not matter?! You’re going back out in an hour or something! I’m fixing it while I can!” That wasn’t a good reason, but he couldn’t really _say_ it was mostly because he was the one who taught her to braid hair, which mean that her braid quality reflected on him. It was a stupid thing to get worked up about, he admitted as the last tangle opened and her fluffy brown hair draped down to the couch cushion in its full, chaotic glory. Time in the Neo World Program accounted for its impressive length, and it had to be tied back for the sake of practicality. Since he always wore a self-styled braid or two, Kazuichi had _tried_ to teach her how to weave it back, but she obviously wasn’t getting the hang of it (and she wasn’t paying attention now, he noted, seeing her feet kicking up absentmindedly). As he finished the last loop, he wondered why she didn’t get it all chopped off. “There we go! Good as new.”

Before he could notice any response, the mechanic was distracted by the TV’s fizz as the actual footage started. “Ooh! Ooh ooh ooh, it’s starting!”

Both of them whipped around and leaned in. The mechanic clenched his legs together in excitement, hands scrunched in excited fists. The gymnast’s feet pattered against the floor, not sure what to expect. It was a semblance of peace, really the way they were anticipating this. One could be forgiven for thinking it was a quiet weekend morning, sun only barely awake enough to shine, its energy already present in the littlest of the people on the planets it watched. Even the archaic technology of the old film box stuffed in its slot harkened back to an era that was faded from sunlight.

The old, 90s-era graphics roared up. It was time for Battlebots.

It had taken a lot of repetition and persistence to convince Owari to watch this. She loved fighting, duh, but she was very picky about what kinds of fictional fighting she would watch. Sheer nagging won her over eventually, but now Kazuichi’s stomach flipped at him, convinced she wasn’t going to like it. It was a childhood favorite of his, but that wasn’t why he was scared to hear it criticized. Maybe it was because it spoke to him on such a personal level that he panicked at the thought of seeing it rejected. Hasty subtitles bled into each other at the bottom of the screen—well, alright. Reading those would be a pain in the ass, and the frenzied English of the announcers didn’t offer a good alternative.

Kazuichi bounced excitedly as the combatants were named. “There it is!” he shouted, pointing frantically at the scorpion-shaped bot rotating gently on the screen. “That guy’s called Warhead, he’s the one I was telling you about!”

“What’s he do?” _She doesn’t sound impressed_.

“Well, okay, you see that disc?” A finger waggled at what looked like the head of the thing. “That’s a saw. It spins around at… Uh, it…” Did they ever say how fast Warhead was capable of going? “It goes really fast.”

“Okay. Is that pretty good, or…” _Don’t tell me she’s bored. Please. Please, no._

Suddenly, the weight distribution on the couch cushions shifted dramatically; Kazuichi watched as Owari leaned further forward. “Wait, but if his disc is turned down like that, the other guy can’t sneak past it and hit underneath ‘im.” A corner of her mouth pricked up, but it felt like the opening of a treasure chest full of choir angels. “His big weapon’s pretty much a shield. Nice.”

The mechanic felt like joining those choir angels. She was happy. She was _enjoying_ spending time with _him_. Or at least being in the same room, which was close enough. It was such a victory that he spaced out a bit as the opposing robot was announced. His friend kept trying to figure out the logic of the robot designs out loud, occasionally looking back for confirmation. (He always nodded. He didn’t even care when she got things wrong, long as she asked.) Kazuichi resolved to take that VHS tape and kiss it later, because it just earned him a real friend.

Come to think of it, why didn’t he ever try making robots like those? It wasn’t unattainable. With his talents, he’d have no trouble getting the mechanisms to work. Designing it might be tricky, but if he stuck enough sharp bits on, it’d probably be fine. Kazuichi rifled through his memory, searching for any offhand reminders of robot-like designs he made, but nothing came up. Definitely nothing until high school—no, nothing then. Nothing up until he entered Hope’s Peak Academy, either. What if—

For a moment, his thoughts hitched on some invisible bump in the tracks. He was facing the television screen directly, unprepared to turn away. The announcers were talking about the creators of the bots now. The subtitle onscreen was short enough that the characters didn’t stick too close together. It was plain to see.

_"You can be sure he’s got a bright future ahead of him!"_

Now the invisible bump became very real. Not as a physical object, with form, but as an empty spot.

It was there, in his memory. Like the last blank space in a game of Wheel of Fortune, it was painfully obvious, but technically it was still unknown until someone said it out loud. No, more accurately, this was the last blank space in a game he was losing—someone else was going to fill it for him. And while some cute phrase would finalize on the board, to him, it would spell failure. There was no escape, only the fun of watching as the truth he dreaded took shape in front of him.

He must have made a robot. He must have made plenty. When he was at Hope’s Peak, there were unlimited resources. He’d have to be stupid to not build a robot. But he didn’t want to remember it. It was there, but if only he could press it down, smash it with a wrench, scream and kick and bite and destroy. If only it were as corporeal as the metal bodies that were so obvious to him, that held such promise, that were so wrong in a way he couldn’t articulate, because to articulate it would make it impossible to deny, because seeing them in focus would ruin everything. But they became clearer and clearer, now in high definition, every chip and tear in the metal hide so obvious, but not so obvious as the minute flakes of blood that dotted the weapons on the hideous, monstrous forms, the terrible designs he yearned to rip apart, wicked tearing of metal fresh in his mind—

He had built robots before. At Hope’s Peak. He didn’t know the look of them, but he knew that he had seen them—perfect form, blades honed beautifully, controls as tight and responsive as anyone could want, wheels caked with blood that dripped onto his hands as he carried them home, soaking under his skin, past the reach of any soap or water, drying into sheets on the outer walls on his bones. Blood that became a part of him, impossible to remove.

Much like he could feel his own worthless, awful blood beginning to seep from his palms, his nails slicing into his hands and opening floodgates of a natural resource that had no utility. Sludge. Like the hideous film that he pretended was only a substance on his skin, when in fact his skin was the thing that contained it. He almost didn’t feel it. The searing bite of saltwater preparing to rush from his eyes was overpowering enough.

No. No, it wasn’t overpowering enough.

It felt like someone nearby laughed. The sound didn’t carry. As his vision clouded from tears, the future of those people on the screen—their _oh-so-bright future_ —melted away, a puddle that was disturbed by the pounding of terrified feet. They were all dead. All of them, there was no question. They were only a few among the full number of names chipped into the granite slabs that stood in the ground as markers, testaments to the fact that someone had existed. And just as a person existed, someone was responsible for their cruel departure.

Who else? Who else but a boy who lied to himself, to his friends and loved ones, about who he was, lied through the teeth of a monster disguised as a man? Who else but a builder of machines with no purpose but to take apart?

There was a trembling pressure in his skull, and as much as he saw it was the enemy, he begged for it to be victorious. The laws of causality, of fault and guilt themselves, bent over and doubled back, sinking vicious teeth into whatever they touched, caring little for identity or safety. One voice emanated in a wail, a deep, scorching accusation against his entire being, one that he could not refute but would only accept with a boiling hiss as his face was stained in meaningless, _meaningless_ tears, tears that came from eyes that could not see, from a soul that had no right to atone for its sins but had every sin to for which to atone.

To struggle against this force—to escape this fate—would spit and curse upon the memory of every story he had ever cut short with his iron heart. But to give up like this was an equal disappointment. To simply sit and watch as fate took justice into its own hands—such was the mark of a weak man.

_gasp_

* * *

 

The sound came from behind his ear. It was alien. In that context, it shouldn’t have been there. That was what brought him back.

Kazuichi was aware that the tears smattered across his face still made it impossible to see, but he was crying into something besides himself now, something strong and supple and grounding. A warm body braced itself against his, a neck that pressed against his own like it would stop the tremors, an arm clutching at his shoulder to suppress all action, and a voice at his back now that choked out suffering cries not unlike his own.

How unfair. How unfair it was that his failures had the gall to leave pain in the soul of others.

How unfair of him to let it happen.

He wondered what brought her to this. Such a strong individual, so full of life on her own, now hurting only because he was. Maybe it was because she knew how it felt to hurt. Maybe because she knew how it felt to take the responsibility for tragedies and willingly allow them to crush her shoulders. How it felt to be the reason why they were gone.

They gradually quieted. Wracking sobs died down.

* * *

 

For a while, they’d just clung to each other. But eventually, silently, Owari pulled away from him, drawing back so she could look him in his weak, burning eyes. Hers were a bit ragged, too, but nobody could ever say they didn’t retain their beauty—their power.

She didn’t know what to say. But something fought its way to her mouth. “I don’t want you to hurt.”

 _Why not?_ “I should.”

“No.”

“I _deserve_ it!”

“Souda, _no_!”

He didn’t dare to speak now, knowing he’d upset her. But she cracked a tiny smile, the kind that follows a disaster that could have been worse. Her voice was raspy now, hoarse from abuse. “Man, if you deserve it, I do too.”

The idea was so confusing and unnatural that only a mumble was fit to answer it.

Owari closed her eyes, tears now glistening from the light of the TV they never shut off. The smile stayed. “We were both Despair, man. That’s how we met in the first place.” And before he could object, she kept going, eyes snapping back open. “But that was before. We’re not Despair anymore, right?” Her hand swept ever so slowly in a circuit on his shoulder. “We have a new start now. We got a chance to move on. I’m not gonna waste that, and I’m not gonna let you waste it, either.”

Kazuichi nodded.

They converged again, less desperate, more appreciative. Break time was over long before they parted again.

**Author's Note:**

> wow, way to be a total downer, me
> 
> Huh. I don't think I really had much to say on the original upload, so, uh. This is a good opportunity to announce that with this upload, all of my deleted fics are back online! Thank God that shit is done. Anything from here on out is new content!


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